


After Midnight

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: First Times, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 00:57:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/792182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Blair...dreams and reality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> This followed me into sleep one night, twisted through my dreams, and was there, breathing down my neck, when I woke up. I decided to spit it out so that it would stop haunting me.

## After Midnight

by JC

Author's webpage: <http://www.skeeter63.org/jayci>

Author's disclaimer: The characters from the TV series "The Sentinel" are not my property, and I am not making money off of them. That's all I have to say.

* * *

After Midnight by J.C. 

"What's wrong?" 

'Everything,' Jim answered, but only in his mind, embarrassed by how true it felt, even though he knew that wasn't entirely the case. He closed his eyes, shutting out the view beyond the balcony glass, and listened to the slow breathing behind him. 

An image automatically formed in his head--Blair leaning against the doorway to his room, watching him. It should have frightened him, he thought, how he so easily picked up on Blair's sensory clues, especially in the loft, how data registered so completely that he didn't need to look in order to 'see'... Barefoot, he decided with certainty, remembering the faint padding of footsteps. Boxers, he added, equally sure of the sound that Blair's cock and balls made against thin cotton, as opposed to the thick softness of sweatpants, plus the earlier slide of sheets over bare legs. And a tee-shirt, but long-sleeved, determined from the sound of arms crossing a minute ago...a pale, faded green color, he knew. That last detail not discerned by heightened senses, but the knowledge that there were only two such shirts relegated for sleeping and the washed-out blue one had been in the hamper just that morning. Blair's hair was loose, a familiar whisper filling the air as it moved, and it was an unruly mess, Jim thought, finishing his mental photograph, basing that on the countless times that he'd seen his friend first thing in the morning. 

"Jim?" 

Flinching at the voice, suddenly louder and much closer, Jim realized that Blair had crossed the room to stand almost next to him. The flip side of having Blair so imprinted, totally opposite to the effortless cataloguing, was how Blair could also slip in under his defenses undetected, his senses relaxing in response to the unthreatening nature of Blair's presence. A hand wrapped around his bicep, another pressing gently at the small of his back. An anchor, he thought absently, holding him down. He took a sudden, hitching breath. No... _taking_ him down. Down, down to a depth of hidden need that seemed blindingly clear at three in the morning with Blair touching him, breathing on him. 

" _Jim_." 

His body reacted, moving to face Blair as if he'd been physically turned around. 

"Are you okay?" 

Jim nodded, though he wasn't sure if it were true. He _felt_ okay, better than okay, in fact, as his eyes took in the three-dimensional reality of the picture that his mind had accurately provided. But yet, he had been haunting the living room in the middle of the night, staring out over the water with a calm that, at that instant, he knew had been a sham. Because now that he was facing it, facing Blair, that deep well of need was practically overwhelming. His vision blurred for a second as he adjusted to a sudden influx of olfactory input, responding to it, to Blair, on the most basic of levels, poking at Blair's stomach with the tented front of his boxers. 

"Oh. Okay, Jim," Blair said, fingers squeezing Jim's arm one time, caressing Jim's lean hip with his other hand. "You know that--" 

"No." The word tumbled free on a gust of breath. Jim leaned closer, sniffed a few times for the rush of sheer pleasure it gave him, and then carefully spoke into Blair's ear. 

" _Oh_ ," Blair said again, but Jim was already walking away. Blair stared at the empty space where Jim had just been, then, after a quick detour, followed him up the stairs. 

* * *

It's just like any other night, Jim thought as he stretched out on his bed, and for a brief moment, it felt good to give life to that lie. There was no small part of his mind, body, and soul that desperately wanted to be able to take for granted that all of his nights could end the same way. 

But, truthfully, no night had been 'like any other' in months. 

Not since that late summer night when Jim had woken up out of a sound sleep, instantly alert, instinctively performing a search of his surroundings, listening hard to the darkness. It was a habit that had been ingrained long before he'd had his heightened senses to aid the process, but it was a more recent development for him to always start with a check on Blair, and always end with the same. He had kept still, concentrating on sound... and everything had seemed fine, but still somehow 'wrong'. After a minute, he had gotten up and executed a hands-on inspection, the kitchen, the front door, the balcony, moving in an ever-shrinking circuit that ended at Blair's bedroom, where he slipped inside silently after only the briefest hesitation. 

He didn't make a habit of venturing into Blair's space uninvited. It felt enough like an invasion of privacy to unwittingly have access to that which he could pick up from across a room. But, there had been more than one occasion when he had stood over Blair's bed and watched him sleep. 

A few times after certain cases had been wrapped up, but not forgotten, invading Blair's dreams, so that restless tossing and fretful murmuring filled the loft with the sound of fear revisited, Jim had crept down to hover uncertainly outside Blair's door, before going in, wanting to comfort, but settling for keeping watch. And that had always seemed to be enough--Jim simply standing there, breathing deep and slow and steady as if he could force calm into the room by the strength of his example alone. Soon after, Blair would quiet down, relaxing and going still, his breathing parroting Jim's, as if unconsciously taking what was offered. 

There had also been times when Jim had been the one plagued with nightmares, waking up in a cold sweat, fear leaving an aftertaste as thick and bitter as blood, and he had, guiltily, taken comfort from the gentle beat of Blair's heart, indulging himself for long moments, wordlessly apologizing for his perceived weakness. But those had been situations easily explained, if ever he had been called on them. 

Not so, that too warm night, when he had felt out of sorts, vaguely disturbed by something unknown. Blair had been bare-chested in concession to the unusually high temperatures, though he still had a sheet and thin blanket thrown over his hips, his bare feet sticking out from underneath. Jim had stood there, amidst the chaos of Blair's room, concentrating his senses full on Blair's sleeping form. It didn't take much for him to isolate the source of his unease, but it wasn't until he found himself sitting hard on the floor by Blair's bed, the pain hitting his tailbone triggering a simultaneous headache, that he realized that his brain had also processed the implications. 

"Jim?" 

The voice was concerned and almost fearful, a whisper that seemed, impossibly, to float almost outside of the range of his hearing. 

"What's his name?" he whispered back, and that sounded loud, ringing inside his head. 

There was a pause, not because Blair didn't understand the question, Jim supposed, but because he was deciding whether or not to answer. 

"Paul. Paul Johnston." 

Jim nodded, though the name meant nothing. But then, he had really only been looking for confirmation of what he had sensed, had no idea what he would have done if the name _had_ been familiar. The idea of Blair and men didn't surprise him, as he was sure the idea of him and men wouldn't surprise Blair. He had seen indications of Blair's interests, watched enough to notice certain signs, and Blair had, no doubt, seen clues of Jim's inclinations. Detective and anthropologist--observers both, and they observed an unspoken rule: Look, but don't touch. It seemed the best way in light of the dangers they already faced, the secrets they already kept, the complex way their lives were already entwined, but Jim had also been operating under the assumption that the 'rule' extended beyond the two of them. Blair did his tango; Jim did his two-step, but only with women...women that they knew would never work out. Anything else was against the rules. 

Obviously, the rules had changed. 

Jim had stumbled to his feet, suddenly feeling totally out of place, out of bounds. An invader in the corner of the world that was Blair's personal space. All he hoped for a peaceful retreat, but as he turned to leave, Blair sat up in the bed. 

"Jim, wait." 

If he could have spoken past the lump in his throat, Jim would have begged, _begged_ , Blair not to say anything. Even then, _especially_ then, it seemed better to let things go unsaid, because their world had tilted and he wasn't sure there were words to set it right. 

Blair grabbed his hand, gripping him tightly. "We should talk--" 

It was Blair who was pressing the issue, Jim thought, and it made him feel better when, seconds later, he was pressing _Blair_. Grappling, half-on and half-off the bed, pressing him into the mattress, cutting off his statement with a rough, wet kiss. He closed his eyes against the sensation, struggling to keep from losing himself. It had been a long time, and never before with heightened touch to emphasize the rub of another dick against his own. He pushed, and pushed again, thrilling to Blair's answering grind. Ricocheting from sense to sense, savoring and imprinting, especially the taste of Blair's mouth, the feel of chest hair and hard nipples, the smell of musky arousal, the sound of moans filling the air... he didn't bother with sight, eyes screwed shut, but explicit images flashed through his head fleshed out by what the rest of his senses were mapping. It was too much...not enough...their hands groping between them, searching, finding... Blair's voice calling his name...hoarse grunts and clumsy jerks, spasming cocks slicking the insides of their clothes with come. 

In the aftermath, Jim tried to get air into his lungs, get the fog to clear out of his head, his muscles quivering with shock and pleasure and fatigue. He tried, but failed to suppress a grin. When Blair nudged him, he shifted his weight, skin sliding across Blair's sweaty body, sighing as his nerve endings hummed and then settled. Still feeling too high to contemplate any possible consequences. Finally, he moved, getting to his knees on the floor. Blair moved with him, sitting up, and they stared at one another in the darkness. Sobering, he started to stand, make that retreat before the sated buzz died out completely. But Blair grabbed onto his shoulder holding him in place, squeezing gently, reassuringly, before pulling him close. Casually, Jim reached out, rubbing his sticky fingers in the crook of Blair's neck, smearing the skin with his semen, obliterating the final trace of Paul Johnston's scent. 

They used their soiled underwear to perform a perfunctory clean-up, and then they slept. Jim woke before Blair's alarm, and surreptitiously allowed himself to feast his eyes. Unsure of how it would look in the light of day for him to be naked in Blair's bed, he escaped to the shower, and was drinking coffee at the table when Blair finally stirred. 

That had been the start of it. 

* * *

For a short time, Jim had felt uncomfortable, but Blair hadn't allowed that for long, even though they never talked about it. Instead, Blair had initiated more encounters where they put mouths and hands to work. Unhurried, sensual explorations on the couch or in Blair's bed, and a few times, there had been passionately frenzied bouts on the floor, the two of them too impatient to seek out more comfortable surfaces. He had no small measure of guilt over the situation, thinking that, despite Blair's 'incident' with Paul Johnston, it was he that had so drastically changed things, and he was often struck by the slow motion memory of descending onto Blair's body, making contact with the solid feel of him, that first heated kiss.... 

In light of that, Jim never again moved first, always letting Blair come to him, but always readily available. Not that that lessened his enjoyment of their times together. He found himself anticipating them, reveling in them, fantasizing about them, and still not totally prepared for the night when Blair had been waiting for him outside the bathroom door and pressed a condom packet into his hand. It had taken his breath away, and when Blair had moved in closer, Jim hadn't thought that he would have enough air to survive a kiss. But Blair had had other plans, anyway, going to his knees, mouthing Jim's dick through the soft thickness of sweatpants. Jim had erupted almost immediately, and Blair had sucked on the soaked material making Jim's legs shake from the contact, unable to combat the post-orgasmic sensitivity of the head of his cock. 

Jim had thought that there would be no way that he'd recover quickly enough, _fully_ enough, to actually function, but Blair hadn't seemed to have any doubts as he led Jim back to his room where he had left a small bottle of lubrication waiting. Blair had kissed him, undressed slowly, and stretched out face down, raising his ass, exposing the hard flesh jutting underneath, offering Jim a new level of access. Jim was hard with the first touch, aching at the first taste, almost on edge again by the time he pushed the first slippery finger inside to prepare the way. It was almost too much to have his _dick_ inside, and he heard sobs as he came, thinking that Blair was crying out, overwhelmed, only to realize later as they were lying next to one another, still slick and sticky and sweaty, that the tears had been his own. 

In the ensuing months, they had had sex dozens of times, from couch to bed to floor, giving Jim more to anticipate, to revel in, and to fantasize about. But then, Jim had started having the dream...Blair, upstairs, handcuffed to the bed there...moaning and writhing... The first time Jim had woken up feeling hazy and slightly nauseous. The second time he had woken up with a hard-on, thrusting into his own hand. And the dream had escalated, or degenerated, into quick flash footage of Blair handcuffed not just to his bed, but to his desk in the bullpen, to the inside of his truck...to _him_. He couldn't control it, so he embraced that persistent sexual thrumming that seemed to always bubble just below the surface of him...until it was almost like a living thing inside him. 

Until that week that Blair had been extraordinarily busy at the university. Until Blair was there that night asking what was wrong, and things suddenly became clearer. Until Blair was touching him, and he could finally voice at least part of what was lurking in the shadows of his brain. Until he was upstairs, naked on his bed, waiting for Blair to fuck him, and he could no longer ignore how deeply he had fallen. 

* * *

They had never before been together in Jim's bed, had never before switched so that Jim could take Blair inside him. And, to Jim, the very air seemed charged with expectation, sizzling around him. 

Slow footsteps, the crinkle of packaging clenched in a tight fist, the muted plop of some clothing dropped on a stair, one stumbling step, and then another, more cloth (boxers that time, Jim surmised) hitting a closer stair, deep breaths, then silence, except for the thundering of his heart beating in concert with Blair's. 

When Blair got to the top, Jim stared at his friend, his partner, hesitating over the term 'lover', unsure if it fit, more certain that it was undeserved, but yet he repeated it over and over inside his head while Blair stared back. 

Blair...strong, sturdy, aroused...drew closer, moving in and out of shadows, and Jim, his mind hazy with lust, heart stuttering with excitement, turned face down on the bed. He concentrated on his tactile sense, pushing it to the limits, until each stroke and caress registered as pleasure so exquisite that it was almost painful. It was cheating, he thought, but his only regret was that he had never thought to do it while buried deeply inside of Blair's ass. Words whispered over his skin made him shake and he realized that at some point Blair had stopped touching him, and slowly he spiraled down, trying to keep from crashing as Blair's voice brought him back from the edges of oblivion. 

"You okay?" 

He nodded, and his head felt heavy, weighing him down, but inside he felt boundless and eager. His hearing wavered for a minute, and he missed Blair's next words, but he caught the lecturing tone, and worked to level off his senses as best he could. Blair's hand was hot on his skin as it gently pushed against his hip, turning him onto his back. 

"You with me, Jim?" 

Croaking out a 'yes', Jim was surprised to note that his throat felt raw, almost as if he had been screaming, and he couldn't be sure that he hadn't. He reached out, halting the crackling ripping sound, taking the rolled-up condom from Blair's hand and dropping it on the bed. The next thing he knew, Blair's hard, lubed cock was entering him. Years it had been, since the last time, but he remembered well enough to know that it had never felt so good, not just the physical act, but something else, something inside. He gave himself up to it, going with it, riding it, until Blair moaned once very loudly and started thrusting faster, and Jim climaxed explosively the minute he felt Blair come with pulsing bursts. They separated and collapsed, lying together for a while, Jim's ass clenched tightly shut, holding in Blair's seed. When their breathing dropped back into normal patterns, Blair's arms came around him, and gradually he relaxed, both lamenting and relishing the tickling trickling as the semen escaped and the pleasant aching left behind. Blair cleaned them both, then resettled behind Jim, kissing him softly on the shoulder, and Jim lay waiting for the moment when Blair would decide to return to his own room. He was still waiting when he finally fell asleep. 

In the morning, Jim woke, feeling wonderfully satisfied, but somewhat uneasy, the remnants of some dream skittering away from his conscious mind. Blair was gone, but Jim could tell that he hadn't been long in leaving, fragrant mist from a recent shower still lingering in the air, and he was only mildly surprised that he had slept through Blair's departure. 

Their paths didn't cross at all that day, Blair's schedule still hectic, and Jim felt himself swinging madly between elation and terror. Out of control and in over his head. He was reminded of another time when he had been uncontrollable, only to find exactly what he needed in a converted storeroom with the name 'Blair Sandburg' on the door. Several times that day, he started to head to Blair's office, but he kept thinking that they were no longer those same two people, and maybe he had already overstepped his limit where Blair was concerned. 

That night, Jim didn't go home. 

* * *

The air was calm, the sky cloudless, and the sun was coming up, but it would rain later, Jim thought. He didn't know how he knew, what it was he sensed, but he had been right enough times, when the meteorologists had been wrong, to not question it, even dog-tired as he was. The slam of his truck door reverberated in his head, and he winced, cursing the fact that, even at his stage of the game, weariness could still weaken his hold on his senses. He went inside, and his knees creaked as he slowly climbed the stairs to his apartment, and his mind, too, seemed to creak and groan a little, the wheels turning as he replayed the night 

The bar where he had nursed a beer, feeling awkward while a man flirted with him. A man whom, months before, he had followed and watched. He hadn't been surprised to find the man there, but definitely hadn't planned on getting so close. Finally, when the green-eyed redhead had touched his arm, saying, 'My name is Paul, would you like to go someplace quieter?', Jim had fled, mumbling excuses, looking for escape, but still not ready to go home. Another bar, a dark corner, tuning in to the echo of connections...some attempted, some made, some severed. Men reaching out to other men, some for fun, some for sex, but some, he could hear, for friendship, for love. Yet another bar, seedier, louder, a darker corner, and he immersed himself in grittier sounds overheard from back rooms, feeling less pain when concentrating on those physical unions. It was near light when he left that last place, hard inside his pants with Blair on his mind. 

Jim was still struggling with thoughts of Blair when he reached the door to #307, and he felt so worn-out and so disconnected. His mind was a swirl of confusion laced with worry about whether it had been a good idea to complicate a friendship and partnership that had already had its share of trouble over the years. A relationship that had already been carefully mended. He locked up, not wanting to tackle the stairs to the loft, but spurred on by the fact that at the top was the promise of at least a few hours of sleep. 

And Blair...Blair was there, in his bed, naked, snoring, half curled around a pillow. Not unwanted, but definitely unexpected, a shock to his system when he already felt raw and exposed. Too exhausted, too unsure, too ill prepared to handle it properly. He sank to the floor, sighing heavily, and sat leaning back against the bed. 

"Jim?" 

Blair's voice, husky with sleep, called out to him once, then again with concern and fear coming through. Jim almost expected to hear Blair ask, 'What's his name?' and wondered, insanely, how Blair would react if he said, 'Paul Johnston'. 

"Oh, hey, I'm sorry, man. I guess I assumed... I'll just get out of your way." 

A bitter chuckle twisted into a choked, sobbing sound, and Jim marveled at how surreal his life had become. Blair sat up on the bed, moving in close behind him, and Blair's bare skin felt warm even through Jim's clothes, and he trembled at the drag of Blair's soft cock along his shoulder as Blair settled in, embracing him. 

"Jim, you've got to tell me what's wrong. What's going on?" 

Jim didn't answer, he just soaked up the warmth, trying to breathe slowly, deeply, and was rewarded with a whiff of Blair's scent with each inhale. 

"Do you want me to just leave you alone?" 

A deep breath. The shake of Jim's head. 

"You stink," Blair said, and Jim was sure that was true. Not just due to the smoke and colognes and sweat from bar-hopping all night, but his own wretched melancholy. "Come on, let's get cleaned up," Blair continued, sliding from the bed and pulling Jim to his feet. 

Jim let Blair lead him downstairs, watching Blair's body in the early morning light, and was silent as he undressed and Blair watched him with dark, troubled eyes. He obeyed when Blair directed him into the tub under the hot spray of water, and finally gave in when Blair got in behind him and said, "Talk to me." 

So, with his eyes closed, while Blair shampooed him, he shared his thoughts and his dreams. As a soapy cloth moved over his torso, he confessed his love and affection. When the cloth slipped lower, warm and sudsy between his legs, he spoke of his desires and attraction. And about how they were all wrapped up in Blair. He almost couldn't _stop_ talking, but the words finally ran out when he whispered that for all he had, he wanted so much more. 

Blair turned Jim and rinsed him. "I guess we should have talked sooner. I love you, too, man. I guess it never occurred to me that you wouldn't know that." Blair turned off the water, got Jim out of the tub, and picked up a clean towel. "Obviously, we haven't been going about this the right way, but, you know, we had held back for so long that I was willing to let things flow as long as _something_ was happening. And last night...I assumed that was your way of moving things forward, and that meant we were headed somewhere. I mean, that's kinda what we do. You're not exactly the sit-down-and-hash-it-out type, but I should know better. I should know to _make_ you, and I should have told you that first night how I feel and what I want." 

When he had quickly dried himself, Blair turned his attention to Jim. Taking care with Jim's body, drying him thoroughly, and Jim's heart, telling Jim the things that he needed to hear. 

When Blair was done, Jim felt light-headed, giddy with relief and love and wonderfully unburdened. He leaned close, taking Blair's mouth in a kiss, and Blair's hand trailed down his ass, teasing. His body responded with a quiver and a moan, automatically shifting slightly to gain more intimate contact. 

"Not here," Blair mumbled against his lips. 

And together they went upstairs. 

* * *

"I've got to get ready to go. I have an early meeting today," Blair said, rousing languidly from the realms of sexual afterglow. "You haven't had any sleep and you don't have anything important on at work; want me to call Simon and tell him that you're under the weather?" 

Jim cracked open one eye and focused on the glowing numbers of his clock. "No. I told Connor I'd help her interview some witnesses. I can still get an hour or two in. I'll be fine." 

Blair gave a soft snort. "Yeah, right. I've _seen_ you running on too little sleep. Maybe I'll just call Simon and tell him that an untamed Ellison will be on the loose in the bullpen today." 

Smiling, but not rising to the bait, Jim said. "Go to _school_ , Junior." The effect lessened by a huge yawn. 

With a chuckle, Blair got up and went to the stairs, hesitated, and walked back over to Jim, kissing him on the lips. "I'll catch you later, man." 

"Later, Chief," Jim answered, eyeing Blair drowsily, then unable to fight it, he fell asleep. 

* * *

"Give it up, Jim. You're not as young as you used to be." 

Jim's head jerked as Blair's voice snatched him back from a doze, and he fuzzily pushed buttons on the TV remote, as if he were merely bored and in search of some good entertainment. "What are you talking about?" 

Blair had set up camp on the couch next to Jim, a lap full of papers, and he looked over the top of his glasses, giving Jim a wry look. "You're beat, man. That all-nighter is catching up to you." 

Jim looked at him, then looked away, staring back at the TV. It was true, he was feeling the effects of too little sleep, but more than that, the past months had been emotionally draining, and he figured that was catching up to him as well. But he hadn't wanted to go to bed. He had wanted to sit and enjoy his time with Blair, savoring how it felt to share the early evening hour with the knowledge that it was the same, but yet different. So very, very, amazingly, wonderfully different. He was almost embarrassed by how much joy he got from just sitting there. 

"Jim." Papers rustled as Blair quietly said his name. 

Jim looked over and was struck by how well he knew Blair's face, how much he liked it. 

"Go on to bed. I'll be up when I'm done. Okay?" 

Jim nodded, unable to help the smile that crossed his tired face. He went up, got in bed, and the simple sounds of Blair grading papers lulled him to sleep. 

A dip and creak of the bed woke him, and then he felt Blair settle in close behind him. He murmured contentedly, squinting briefly at the clock. Just after midnight, which meant that he had slept for a few hours. 

"Didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep." 

The whisper tickled his shoulder, and he turned to face the source. Hands moving, touching, reacquainting themselves with Blair's body. Desire stirred in him, vainly trying to do battle with his fatigue. 

"Go back to sleep," Blair insisted. 

One last caress and Jim went willingly, chasing dreams where he was chained to Blair, happy and secure in the knowledge that, in fact, it was true. 

>> the end <<


End file.
